Lorro sprang for the door and Lon shot him in the back.
Elverson sprang for Lon, but a second too late. Jocko fired. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elverson crumple. I scissored Jocko’s legs and he went over. I threw him in a full nelson and rolled him on top of me as another gunshot split the air.
I felt the shock of the blast through his body; he shuddered, then went limp. I grabbed his gun, aimed vaguely at Lon, and fired off three quick shots, missing each time. Mobright dove for him.
Then two shots rang out from behind me. Lon buckled, leaving a smear of red on the brick wall. As I turned to look at the shooter, Mobright picked up Lon’s gun and dropped into a crouch. I took two wild shots at him, missing him in the gun smoke and the urgency.
“No, Reb!” Mobright shouted, dashing to take cover behind an oak desk. I flashed on the drill four feet away. I snatched up the heavy toolas a voice from behind me shouted, “You’ve got the wrong man, Reb!”
Already in full motion, I heaved the drill with all my might at Mobright. Just as he reached the desk, the tool smashed him in the side, knocking the wind out of him.
“Stop!” someone shouted.
I spun around in total confusion. Inside the far door a man who looked oddly familiar pointed a smoking handgun loosely at the floor. He was the one who had shot Lon.
He dropped his gun and raised his hands.“Don’t shoot, Reb. Please don’t shoot.” He turned to Mobright. “Are you all right, Timothy?”
“No,” Mobright gasped.
“Who the hell are you?” I shouted at the man.
He moved swiftly toward me, his arms still raised.
Stopping three feet from me he said, “You know me as Henry Greer—the courier.”
“Greer?” My mind reeled. I saw an image of the withered, dying man at The Willows, heard the rasping voice. The person in front of me was sixty, full head of gray hair, lean, clear-eyed. But Greer had died in the nursing home, hadn’t he? “Greer?” I repeated.
“Yes,” the man said in the rasp. “Henry Greer.” He cleared his throat. “But my real name is Arlen Beckett.”
Jangling shock. “What are you talking about? Arlen Beckett just left with Tecci.”
“No he didn’t. Beckett just arrived, because I am he.”
This was too much too fast. “Everybody’s a goddamn liar here!” I shouted. “Jesus, if you’re Beckett, then who—”
“His name is Jack Heath,” Mobright groaned. “He was Inspector Beckett’s second-in-command. He’s been using Beckett’s name with you for some twisted reason.”
Keeping my eyes on the new Beckett, I said, “You think I’m listening to you, Mobright? A minute ago you drew on me. You were going to shoot me.”
“No, I wasn’t. You tried to shoot
“What?” I desperately tried to cling to unchallenged facts. There was me, there was Ginny, there was Archie. I thought it was Archie in the woods in Mendocino. He said it was him when I asked him in the hospital.
“I saved your ass in Mendocino,” Mobright groaned. “Took him out a second before he was going to plug you.”
“What the hell’s going on here!” I shouted.
“Give me two minutes to explain,” Beckett said.
“Make it one. Talk fast.”
The man took a breath.
“I met Heath at Oxford when I was on a fellowship. He was biding time until he could take over the family empire. We became friends. One night over too much brandy he confessed he’d had a homosexual encounter, something that wouldn’t have been approved of by his father or British society at that time. He made me swear never to tell anyone.”
“So what?”
“After completing my studies, I returned to the States and was recruited into the Central Intelligence Agency. Not long after, Heath called me, literally out of his mind, screaming that his father had found out about his secret and that he’d been totally disinherited. He accused me of breaking my oath. I reiterated my loyalty to him and offered my help.
“I arranged for his emigration to the U.S.; then, at his request, I sponsored him into the organization. As Mr. Mobright said, Heath moved up the ladder right behind me, and we moved together to Gibraltar. While investigating Nolo Tecci’s part in Krell’s organization, I discovered that Tecci had been implicated in blackmail years ago. One of the victims was Jack Heath’s father.”
“You’re telling me Heath’s college affair was with Nolo Tecci? Jesus.”
“Gibraltar doesn’t allow for skeletons in closets, Reb. The bones tend to rattle. I had to investigate Jack— privately. I found journals in his house, dating back to just before he joined me in America, detailing his hatred for me, his unwavering belief that I was the one who had betrayed him, though it had to have been Tecci.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Beckett went on bitterly. “Our relationship had been a complete sham. All along he was planning his retribution, just waiting for the right moment. What an
